


Nocte, pōnam iuxta tu . . . necromanticis peccātō

by ImpulseFunWritinAnon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Deathfic, Descent into Madness, Gothic, Horror, M/M, Necromancy, Severus Snape is a Horcrux, Songfic, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:35:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulseFunWritinAnon/pseuds/ImpulseFunWritinAnon
Summary: It started so innocently. First, that kiss. We never kissed in life, but I didn’t think He’d mind. After all, He’s dead.The next day, the kiss lingered. My hands strayed to the wavy ends of His hair. It was soft, though I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Still. Our lips only touched.Until they didn’t.Or, Harry Potter's good luck had to run out eventually.[Translation: Tonight, I will lay beside you . . . in necromantic sin]
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. His End

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A House Divided](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317506) by [Chickenpets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chickenpets/pseuds/Chickenpets). 



> I finally got the courage to write something for my OTP. So, yeah. 'My first Snarry'. That sounds only slightly disturbing, but not as much as, well, _this_ subject matter. 
> 
> **Heed the tags.** I tried not to spoil much. Warning tags at the end of each chapter.
> 
> Big thanks to my Beta/co-writer [lucianwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucian/pseuds/lucianwolf). You are awesome!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in the end notes.

_Parchments scabbed over with plasmatic prose,_  
_prophesize permanent night._  
_The words of sheer blackness paint ebony my soul,_  
_and bestow me with infernal might._  
  
_A warped diction of scriptures befouled,_  
_traditions steeped within disgraces reviled._  
_Father, unholy one, to your night realm we bow!_  
  
_Nocturnal majesty,_  
_sworn to black we'll always be._

Nocturnal by The Black Dahlia Murder

* * *

The bloody Boy Hero was at the wrong place at the wrong time yet again, not that it at all surprised me. The Shrieking Shack incident has become infamous among the ranks, and Bellatrix cackles madly at every mention of it. 

I had been standing motionless before the Dark Lord in the dangerously dilapidated Shrieking Shack, not daring to breathe against the wand digging into my throat. His slitted, scarlet eyes bored into me, and I fervently wished the rotten wooden floors would collapse; I'd have a much better chance of escaping a building falling on top of me than the Dark Lord's wrath. 

He smiled in a way I'd seen too many times. Tonight was going to end very badly for me.

But then, a sound.

Voldemort whirled, infuriated as always at being interrupted, to find nothing but a stack of decaying wood behind him. Absolutely nothing. Which meant— 

_Oh god._

I abruptly discovered that it wasn’t pure will that had kept me motionless: Voldemort had Petrified me when I couldn’t hear, and I could do nothing but watch the horror about to unfold.

The Dark Lord turned all his attention towards a dusty crate. He was unable to see who made the noise, but as always, cometh the hour, cometh The Boy Who Lived. And come he did, right into the enemy’s arms.

The bloody idiot.

The wood exploded in a haze of hellfire and brimstone, splinters and shrapnel, revealing a tunnel in the darkness. Sawdust and smoke obscured my view and burned my unblinking eyes. I heard Weasley and Granger screaming for Harry; I heard Harry weakly shouting at them to run. I heard their scrabbling footfalls fade rapidly into the distance, Granger certainly dragging Weasley who would have foolishly stayed to die. 

The reek of decayed wood and ozone filled the air, and the Dark Lord shot into the dark tunnel, but it was half-hearted at best, for the Boy Who Lived was supposedly crumpled in a bloody heap at his feet.

A groan heard beneath his blasted father’s Invisibility Cloak, the Dark Lord then jerked the Cloak from his robe-clad body, lying limp and weak, the Cloak thrown aside, forgotten. Potter’s breath came in shallow gasps, lips seeming to kiss the dust of the blood-spattered earth as blood dripped from the end of his nose, eyelids fluttering as he struggled to stay alert.

The dust cleared just in time for me to see the Dark Lord end the reason I have kept fighting for so long—my life’s devotion. I watched helplessly as Potter’s life slipped away, and with a thrill of brutal satisfaction, I watched the Dark Lord collapse in that same instant.

No more of that teenage rebellion in those startling green eyes, no more of that impish grin and Gryffindor bravado, no more of that snarling look of anger he got when I instigated another bout of verbal sparring. How beautiful he looked when in the throes of passionate fury. Both boys of prophecy lied dead—another body to accompany the other in the Great Hall.

It was too optimistic to have hoped for the Dark Lord’s death. I know better than to hope.

 _“Cinis in cinerem,”_ the Dark Lord softly incanted, _“pulvis in pulverem.”_

_O god, why have you—_

_“Et tuo mors,”_ he continued in that deceptive, crooning high voice, _“superābō Mors.”_

I screamed.

* * *

I awake in the dusty darkness with a horrific realization:

A Horcrux.

I am a horcrux. Voldemort’s Horcrux.

How did Potter go on living the way he did with such vileness inhabiting his body? I do not want to find out. But despite all claims to the contrary, I am no coward and I will continue to live, if only in defiance.

It brings me some small sliver—if not of hope, then of defiant pleasure—to know that Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger are on the run. Somewhere.

I find Potter’s body at the bottom of an unmarked mass grave. _“Exhumare,”_ I incant at the mound of earth in front of me, resembling ancient barrows. Setting the earth aside with a flick, I take His body. I point at the unearthed pile, say, _“Inhumare,”_ and leave the rest to rot. 

He will go with me to Spinner’s End.

He belongs to no one else. He is mine. Forever.

  
  


He is my secret now.

And with this action, I have, at long last, found religion, salvation, in Him—Lily, the goddess, Harry, the son, and myself, the damned spirit. Thus, I make a god out of Him as I hold Him in my arms, the herald of our reawakened relationship.

 _“Mors,”_ I whisper into his ear, _“potest non et erit non subsistit nobis.”_

  
  


* * *

Having Potter’s body at Hogwarts is more of a risk than I was willing to take under the Dark Lord’s new reign. I would be caged underneath Malfoy Manor for a long lifetime of torture. No, it is best to stay in the shadows. At least I’m proficient at keeping secrets. And I will gladly take them to the grave.

I spell all the curtains shut, but not before making them sworn to black, dark as pitch, obscuring my humble abode. No one need see what I do behind closed doors. 

I know this is not ideal for Him, but I make do. Potter, being dead, surely will not mind, his body enchanted into stasis. His lips leave nary a sign of oxygen deprivation; His body, free of his dirty robes, just as creamy and pale as before; His hair, free of dirt and worms and creatures of the earth; His hands, thin, fingers calloused yet soft—a lithe, svelte figure, barely past the awkward gangle of limbs that define adolescence. His pitch-black hair sticks up in swirls and knots, characteristically messy as always. His lips are a tantalizing reddish pink, no longer the color of a rose, yet so tempting—as tempting as they have always been.

The land of milk and honey, indeed. 

If Potter could hear my thoughts, I would pursue a swift and sure death. But He does not know. He cannot know. He is not able to know.

All the better.

* * *

Sneaking away after a night of revelry and twisted, drunken celebration was easier than I anticipated last night. Nobody dared suspect me a thing—not even Bellatrix. It was easy.

Too easy.

Was it too easy?

Perhaps I simply underestimated the ability of an ugly, old man to blend in with the crowd, smiling a terrible smile at the right moments, laughing at their attempt at gallows humor and its tactless punchlines, and applauding their capacity for original thought—which none have; merely a desperate desire for power and sickening sycophancy. But I, at last, seem to fit in. Not the way I had originally foreseen, but I could not help a jolt of pleasure at outliving all the Marauders. 

I look at Potter’s unblinking, unnerving gaze.

I find myself thoroughly castigated by His celestial eyes. I should not let my thoughts wander. 

_But why not?_ counters the most reasonable—cruel—part of me. _He is dead._

True. He cannot see through me, a master Occlumens. He is no Legilimens; not now and not before. And, I remind myself again, He is dead. 

And cold.

I shift my gaze away from Him and turn to get blankets before Apparating back to Hogsmeade. Wouldn’t want the impish brat to get cold on my count.

* * *

I come back the next day.

He is not so cold now.

  
  


I kiss him.

In a world where dark magic reigns supreme, Harry, the only source of light at the end of a very long dark tunnel, is my god, myself the lone worshipper of the church, the Eden that is His body.

Yes, I kiss him.

And I die inside. For Him. And the tree that is what I feel for Him, of the forbidden fruit, blooms, as I say with all that I am the words on Lily’s grave: 

**novissima autem inimica destruetur mors**

* * *

_“Pot— Harry.”_

_“Yes, Severus, my lo—?”_

_“Don’t. No games. Not now.”_ Our interactions have become casual, even playful, if only in private.

_“...Fine. What is it now, you greasy bastard?”_

_“Nothing you have done this time, I assure you. But this requires your full attention, so listen carefully._

_“Do not delude yourself into thinking that there was anything between us—this, us, is not beyond surface-level. It is what it is. Just— Don’t, Harry; listen! Just… Whatever happens tomorrow, listen to Dumbledore, keep your wits about you, don’t be so keen to jump in the fire, and—”_

_“Don’t die?”_

_“...Yes. But knowing you, Potter, I doubt even death can stop you. Even so—stay alive.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“For now, we must rest.”_

_“Yes, Professor.”_

_“Hm. What is it, Harry? No ‘there is no need to call me sir, Professor?”_

_“You were getting on my nerves! You deliberately picked on me to get a reaction out of me, and you got it. You deserved it.”_

_“Did I now?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And tell me, Harry dearest: what is it that I truly deserve?”_

_“...Something more.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_“Yeah. That and whatever I can give of myself.”_

_“Sounds like you’ve been given this plenty of thought. Am I correct?”_

_“Well_ — _I_ — _Yes. I have.”_

_“And what should I give of myself then, Harry?”_

_“...Anything that you will allow yourself to give.”_

_“But I already am.”_

_“I know that.”_

_“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to resign yourself to what I currently give. Is that clear?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Good. And, Harry?”_

_“Yes, love of my—?”_

_“Don’t.”_

_“Yes, you insufferable git?”_

_“I— You— Never you mind. Your presence and way with words seem to have rubbed off on me.”_

_“Is… that a good thing, or a bad thing?”_

_“It is what it is.”_

_“All right. Well then. See you tomorrow?”_

_“...Perhaps.”_

I don’t have good memories. Even of Harry.

* * *

It started so innocently. First, that kiss. We never kissed in life, but I didn’t think He’d mind. After all, He’s dead.

The next day, the kiss lingered. My hands strayed to the wavy ends of His hair. It was soft, though I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Still. Our lips only touched. 

Until they didn’t. 

That was the day after. We finally truly kissed. Well, as much as He was capable of kissing. Despite tasting what I daren’t try in my past life, it still felt deeply unsatisfying, inanimate as he was.

I had dabbled in necromancy under Voldemort’s early tutelage. Potions may have been what I was good at, but I devoured the Dark Arts with nearly the same fervour as Bellatrix (It set her on edge, looking at me strangely, suspiciously, just as she looked at anyone and everyone except Voldemort). I never thought I’d have to refresh on the finer points of such dark magic. Yet I found myself perusing through books that I had cursed to disintegrate the entrails of anyone who touched it but me.

Of course, one of the books that I need most is still a bit on the hostile side. Worse than Hagrid’s books, it not only bites, but releases a noxious gas that Confunds the senses in an attempt to stave off anybody who does not have true need for the book. Luck—and necessity—is on my side, so the gas merely makes me sneeze at the tattered book in my hands. It snarls and sneezes back, and seems to grin at me. Annoyed, I slap the backside of the book. Strangely appeased, it fully opens beneath my fingertips.

_Hm. I wonder if that will work on Harry._

It doesn’t even take an hour for me to get the information I need. I knew I had the ability to do it; I merely needed ro find the incantation.

And find it I did—no complicated ritual required.

**cadaver invoco infernā de Tartarus**

I utter the words remorselessly, damning myself as the spell demanded. Funny how being twice-damned doesn’t feel the least bit different. And I find myself ecstatic to explore this new frontier, this new body—my Harry. 

I can’t help but wonder if Resurrected Martyr ejaculate tastes sweeter than Boy Hero.

I make my way up the stairs perhaps a little too eagerly. No matter. He is not alive (yet) to see my excitement.

* * *

Harry is… different. 

  
  


I had not imagined Him being so lifeless.

  
  


It is probable that sleep deprivation has addled my brain. Surely His very much unlively presence wasn’t taking a toll on my powers of deduction and reasoning, the logic that most wizards normally find so elusive. 

I resolve to get a good night’s sleep before I become more acquainted with the book on necromancy. Tonight, He sleeps. 

  
  


And I lie beside Him.

I do not find it the least bit horrifying, nor repulsive, my head in a foggy disarray of dismay and desire, to find myself pressed up against His back—that my body is highly responsive to Him, still as He is.

And I like it.

  
  


I fall asleep in that position, holding Him close to warm His body.

* * *

In the morning He blinks at me and lets out soft sighs as I touch Him, and I find out what Resurrected Martyr tastes like.

  
  
  


Like a mixture of death and life, a marriage of nectar and ambrosia, and the rot underneath a reclusive tomb.

  
  
  


It is… heady.

How lovely my hallowed nights are spent with Him by my side. And what sweet noises He makes, my consecration—complete.

* * *

On the fourth day at the brink of dawn, I run through the tamed book to make the experience with Harry more lively. Enchantments and incantations galore, I devour the book and all its information throughout breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the dark curtains eclipsing any and all rays of light. I discovered what made Harry so lifeless: it was His new baseline of existence, and I had not given Him a command yet. As He gets used to even the most menial of tasks—or, like the book reads, ‘The daily back and forth of plain living’—my Harry will become more like Himself in life. 

And slowly but surely, He did.

* * *

With the taste of His soft, divine skin so sweet in my mouth, anointing him with my moist tongue, murder briefly crosses my mind at a hurried knock at my door. How dare anyone disrupt Us— _Him._ How dare they disrupt His sleep.

Harry gets back into bed at a flick of my wand. I tuck the bedclothes around his cold body. “I shall come back soon, _love of my life,”_ I say to him in a murmur. Not like He can tell the sarcasm in my tone now, the one that I knew that He knew in Our past life was a cover for underlying fondness We were too afraid to express sincerely, but it nearly feels like Our— _my_ past life. Before everything went up in flames.

I glide down the stairs, ready to viciously shoo away whatever proselytizing Muggle was standing at my front step as quickly as possible. 

But it’s no Muggle.

No one actually.

And then, two familiar faces appeared to be floating in the darkness before me.

They stand there, motionless, slightly bowing their heads in silent greeting, wrapped together in a cloak—His cloak; that explains how they have survived for more than a month. Granger and Weasley furtively look around their surroundings, looking haggard in their worn, tattered robes.

Still alive.

I hurry them inside.

“What are you dunderheads thinking being out here,” I snarl, making the both of them flinch. “Why are you here? This is no time for lolly-gagging around, even in these parts. Have you no idea that Death Eaters know my place of residence?” They continue to stare down at the floor, Weasley looking mutinous with fists wound tight. I sigh, deciding to take it easy on them. “Death Eaters are always watching. You should have—”

“What?” says Ronald Weasley, his face flushing red with indignation. “Should have what, Professor? Sent you an owl letting you know we’d like to have a cuppa? Think they’d let an owl right on through?”

“Ronald!” says Hermione Granger, the know-it-all looking world-weary, exhaustion evident on her face. “We should be thankful that he didn’t—”

“Didn’t what, Hermione? Turn us in to You-Know-Who? Transfigure us into cockroaches and stepped all over our sorry corpses? Hex us silly? What?”

“Enough,” I say softly. Thankfully, they both shut their mouths long enough to listen. Ronald doesn’t argue, a sign of how tired he is. “This place is not safe for you. I suggest you Apparate to the nearest Order safe house—”

“All the safe houses have been destroyed or discovered, Professor,” says Granger. 

“Is that so?” I say.

“Yes,” she says primly. “And I say that you should aid us in resisting. Or…” She bit her lips, fidgeting with her nails nervously.

“...Or what, Miss Granger?”

A shred of defiance lights up her brown eyes. “Or we expose you for your true allegiance.”

Her eyes are fiercer than I ever have seen on that face. It reminds me of… Harry.

Of Lily.

And I have come full circle. 

Of course.

Frustrated with my observation—that my love for Lily is completely inconsequential here and now, that Harry has ahold of my very being more than the Dark Lord could ever hope to have—and resigning myself to it, I make my way to the kitchen to start tea. “You can stay here tonight,” I say. “There are blankets in the closet; just don’t go anywhere near my bed—”

“Holy fuck! Hermione!” Weasley yells.

I don’t know why I’m at all surprised.

I want to cry out _‘DON’T! AWAY FROM HIM, HEATHEN!’_ , but I need to stay calm, even if His best friend wants to get Him away from me. _(He belongs to no one but me. I keep His body safe.)_ Perhaps Ron isn’t as dull as I thought he was.

“Is— Is,” stammers Weasley idiotically, “is that Harry?” he finally manages to get out, louder than probably intended as I arrive at my bedroom.

“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly. “I dug him up to keep him safe from the clutches of the Dark Lord. Wouldn’t want He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to make vile concoctions from his body, now would we?”

“What is it now, Ron—ohmygod, it’s Harry!” Granger cries out at the sight of Harry tucked neatly into the bed. I count myself lucky that they do not suspect him to be naked underneath all the bedclothes. “Harry! It’s us!”

I swallow. I decide in Harry’s memory not to be cruel. “He’s dead, Hermione,” I say gently. “It was the only way to prevent the Dark Lord from defiling Him or dragging His body through the streets. He’s dead. Just preserved.” And for the first time in years, I say, “I’m sorry.”

Weasley looks ill at the words, his face paling.

“He doesn’t look like he has decomposed a bit!” Hermione says in tremulous wonder, her voice nearly a whisper. “God!” Abruptly I find myself in a strong embrace. “Thankyou, thankyou, _thank you so much,_ Professor! I knew you were not really one of them! I always had a feeling, I always told Harry that he should trust you and ohmygodit’ssogoodtoseehim—” she continues, clearly in hysterics. And I do not blame her.

_Harry. Trust me? Not one of them?_

_Am I not a Death Eater?_

_And have I not been taking advantage of His lovely body for more than a month?_

And I can continue to do so without her being the wiser, under the guise of keeping His now holy body under stasis, kindly preserved as a representation of Our fight, Our resistance— _No. The_ Resistance to Voldemort—as a symbol that the Resistance is not out of the running quite yet, my Harry the heart and soul of it all.

Best that both of Harry’s friends think me an ally with nothing to gain from this.

So I steady myself for a smooth reply on my part, and set up for what is to come. And when it comes— When _my_ time comes, I will—

  
  
  
  


_No._

  
  
  
  


_We_ will come and meet it.

* * *

_Pinned to the bed sheets,_  
_like a prized butterfly._  
_I hear your voice so precious,_  
_echoing so deeply inside._  
  
_I did my best to love you,_  
_while you did live and breathe._  
_This tender taxidermy,_  
_trophy of the bereaved._

Deathmask Divine by The Black Dahlia Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Implied necrophilia, underage (Harry is 17; implied beginning of relationship with Snape at 16), non-con (because Harry is dead).
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  Cinis in cinerem, pulvis in pulverem. = Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  
> Et tuo mors, superābō Mors. = And in your death, I shall overcome Death.  
> Mors potest non et erit non subsistit nobis. = Death cannot and will not stop us.  
> novissima autem inimica destruetur mors = The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death  
> cadaver invoco infernā de Tartarus = I call upon the body from the nethermost regions of Hell
> 
> Listened to Bartok’s _‘Concerto for Orchestra’_ for Ch. 1.


	2. My End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings in the end note. Not for the faint of heart or a weak stomach. 
> 
> Beta/co-writer: lucian

_Before you sits a broken man,_

_with your fragile pinkish heart in hand._

_Peculiar how it can hurt so bad,_

_while love is only in the mind._

_I sew the gaping chestwork,_

_each thread is made with love._

_The bosom where I would rest,_

_my face is covered in your blood._

_I interrupt this transformation,_

_a familiar lust swelling in me._

_A long and soulful kiss!_

_The shades are drawn,_

_the living world can't see._

_The coil of entrails,_

_how curious the smell._

_So pungent to my eager nostrils,_

_hands further compelled._

Deathmask Divine by The Black Dahlia Murder

* * *

Death Eaters are not loyal out of love or faith or duty. Death Eaters are loyal because they have seen what has happened to those who are disloyal, to those who fail, to those Voldemort chooses to play with, and none of it is private. We have all been stripped naked and debased in front of all the others. We have tortured and been tortured; we have screamed; we have vomited. We have bent and convulsed. Our skin has been scarred by dark stinging curses, by whips and knives and cudgels; our joints dislocated; our bones broken; our orifices ripped open. We have raped and been raped by each other. None of us are innocent. All of us are playthings to a mad god.

By the time any of us realized that we would never have real power, it was far, far too late. 

And then, eventually, every one of us developed a taste for it. Some would say it's Stockholm syndrome. It doesn't really matter. We are desensitized, we are obscene, and we are addicts.

I know from experience that even with magic, it’s easy to miss splattered viscera between the floorboards, under furniture, and on chandeliers, so I decide to eliminate the issue at the source. It’s a matter of practicality, after all. 

I keep Him awake because it pleases me. 

He lies naked on the table before me, his skin cool and dry—fair and immaculate, youthful forevermore. He smiles dreamily at me. I tell him to scream when it hurts. 

As much as I love the smell, the feel, the sight of blood running in rivulets down someone else’s body, the risk of something going wrong in our fragile dance between the Dark Lord and the Resistance is simply too high. My paranoia will hardly allow me to entertain the thought of allowing Harry to keep His. 

Harry hisses as I carefully slide a large needle into his left femoral artery, then the right. I could place and weave them into his arms, neck, or abdomen, but this feels so much more intimate. 

_“Capiō exit sanguis corpus,”_ I chant in a whisper, a macabre cantata echoing in the silent room as blood rushes out of His body. 

I trace my fingers up and down the softness of His cock as I watch His holy blood fill dark glass jars beneath the table. They will be warded and preserved more carefully than Gringott’s could ever dream of. If the wards ever break, the explosion will take out a square kilometre. I don’t care how many Muggle lives it costs to keep Harry’s blood out of Voldemort’s hands. Sometimes costs are made to be borne.

I told his raggedy friends that Voldemort shouldn’t be able to use him for potions. I never said anything about not doing it myself.

His body thoroughly drained, I no longer need to worry about rapid bloating and rot should my magic fail for a time, nor have his divine body leave any evidence of Our sacrosanct relations I may ever miss. I caress his cheek with the back of my hand and whisper softly, “Beautiful.” His eyes mirror my adoration.

Human autopsy lines are quite efficient for simple disembowelment, and Harry screams as I cut through skin and muscle. I split Him wide open, taking in His virgin, untouched flesh and entrails. The coils of His intestines are slick and wet, shining and flickering in the torchlight. (Yes, Muggle lighting is much more efficient, but sometimes one needs a certain ambience.)

I need to feel every inch of my Saviour. I plunge my bare hands into the softness, the wetness; feel His organs slicking between my fingers and wrapping obscenely around my wrists. Harry groans in pain. “Please, Severus—” he gasps.

I need so very much to be inside of Him. 

I drag Him down to the edge of the table, prop His legs up on either side of me, and slick us both with His abdominal fluids. I grab His hips and shove inside of Him to the vibrato of His howl. I then bury my hands in his intestines, letting the organs slip through my hands as I thrust into Him. 

It is beyond heavenly. To be within my Saviour, to be consecrated with His blood, to touch every inch of that which fills me and forgives me. I have been baptized in the body of my Saviour. 

I run my hand down His large intestine until I can feel myself filling Him, and I tighten my hand around his colon as I thrust through it. 

“Get hard for me, Harry,” I whisper, because I want so badly to watch Him come with my hand inside of him. His cock swells as He gasps, and His eyes are glazed with pain and want. One hand around Him, I keep a long, deep rhythm and Harry’s gorgeous eyes roll back as He moans and pants. 

“Fuck me, Severus,” he groans out, my perfect Holy Child, begging for me to defile Him. I quicken my pace, keeping up with his breathless gasps—breathless gasps from a body that no longer needs to breathe. The thought of what I’m going to do next destroys what little control I have left. “Come for me, Harry,” I gasp out, and my Angel cries out beneath me as We shatter together in a violent climax. 

He is perfect, my Everything, His sleepy eyes and beatific smile in sharp contrast to the organs spilling from his belly.

I shiver with ecstasy as I slip out of him, my prick covered in a mix of bodily secretions, blood and come. I _Scourgify_ Us both. After tucking my cock back into my trousers, I select a scalpel.

Harry can't slip into unconsciousness, so His screaming becomes a symphony that I conduct with my hands across His body. With surgical precision, I remove His bladder, liver, spleen, pancreas, small intestine and most of the large. With that out of the way, I cut out His abdominal aorta, vena cava, kidneys, gallbladder and stomach, and cut apart His diaphragm. 

Death Eaters are richly versed in anatomy and medicine. How else could we reconstruct our fellow Death Eaters when Voldemort is finished with them?

I saw through my distorted beauty’s ribs and pry His chest open. I slice out His lungs and attach what’s left of his large intestine to his esophagus. 

We wouldn’t want my fluids to build up and rot in his body after I went to all the effort of emptying it.

Though the idea of skull-fucking has its appeal, I leave His brain and His gorgeous head of hair alone. His perfect, deep-red heart is all that’s left. I cut it out carefully and study the atria and ventricles, tracing the cardiac arteries and veins with reverence. It is peculiar how the heart can seem to hurt so badly when that feeling is only in the mind.

I christen His cold heart with a slow kiss, inhaling the rich scent of blood and rot and earth before placing it in a jar. It will sit in my Potions classroom on my desk. It will be a thrill to have Him with me always, and darkly amusing when I imagine how the students would feel to know their Saviour’s heart sits dead in front of them. 

I do not stitch Him up right away, though I do replace His ribs. I won’t be able to sleep if Harry screams all through the night. I guide Him to bed and rest my head against His open chest. It is slick and cold against my face. I fall asleep with the smell of blood thick in my throat.

  
  


I wake in the morning, my hands and face sticky with drying blood. One side of my mouth curls up in the closest I get to a smile. Harry howls as I yank His chest skin apart and lick across the grooves of his bare pectoral muscles, His ribs. My heart soars. I trail down to tongue along the edge of muscle where I split open His abdominal cavity.

That’s enough. I can do this whenever I like. No reason to do everything today. I reknit His bones, and mend His skin. His body is as flawless as it ever was.

* * *

His eyes, in stasis just like the rest of him, are motionless on His face, forever unblinking, looking but unseeing. I have wondered if He judges me from above, or wherever the soul goes upon death. But I do not mind. Whenever I look into His penetrating stare, empty and green as a summer glade, I become lost, a heartbroken chill causing an ache in my chest. 

Harry, my sun and my moon, lies across the bed and hangs his head over the edge. By heaven, I am a lost soul wanting nothing more than for my Beloved to swallow me whole, end me, tear me apart the same way I have both ruined Him and saved Him—my eternal salvation here and now.

I enter His lovely mouth. I begin to move. I watch my cock go in and out of Him (a perfectly splendid view), engulfing me in such a way that, enraptured, I take His head in my hands and drive violently all the way inside, ramming myself down his throat. I pillage his soft, eternally young mouth for all it is worth—He is worth the world, as ungrateful as it is. _Nobody could ever be good enough for Him,_ I think as I shove into him like a man possessed. _No one is able to provide him the care, attention, and protection that I can, no, nobody no one can have him not granger not weasley not his family no one is good enough he is mine he is mine forever mine i am his iamhis iamhis iam—_

The thread of my sanity cut by the Fates’ ever-unfailing, unholy shears, I feel tremendous heat set my body ablaze as I reach the pinnacle of my pleasure, and, crushing my cock against his face, I howl, expressing my love, and I fall, and fill his throat with my ecstasy. I feel Him swallowing me, throat clenching around my spent cock, emptying me of my essence and all that I am. 

He licks me clean as I withdraw, and it feels like adoration. Harry sits up and turns to me.

His jaw is hanging at an unnatural angle. Sounds come from his throat, but his jaw does not move. 

Yes, I have seen this before in the service of the Dark Lord, though there was usually more screaming accompanying a jaw fucked into dislocation. Voldemort had no regard for the limits of the human body, and neither were we allowed any.

I can heal it, but right now—

I look into his empty, green stare, and, familiar lust swelling in me, I give Harry a long and soulful kiss—one that I did not dare think to ever give Him in life. 

My eyelids flutter closed in macabre pleasure. 

I think distantly about how twisted I have become. I briefly wonder if this is due to housing a piece of the Dark Lord’s shattered soul in my body, or if it has just been hidden all of my life, but I decide it does not matter.

It is not a shame to be damned—or blessed?—forever in this gorgeous state of life and death. I may be a horcrux, but when I make love with this Holy Child, I feel a joy permeating through my bones that makes me feel like I am finally close to God. In Him, I find religion; commitment; a reason for my existence. 

And oh, what a grand union We make.

* * *

_The lucid pure calmness of ecstasy_

_The carnal state, my only grief_

The Carnal State by Gorguts

_“I enjoyed the innocence of unhappiness and of helplessness; could I blame myself for a sin which attracted me, which flooded me with pleasure precisely to the extent it brought me to despair?”_

George Bataille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Non-con, underage (17), necrophilia, blasphemy and gore.**
> 
> **Translation:**  
>  capiō exit sanguis corpus = I take the blood out of the body.


	3. Our End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: lucian
> 
> Translations at the end.

_I could never let you go,_

_my darling cold and blue._

_I wonder are you dreaming still,_

_spread eagled blood removed._

_  
_ _I weave the sucking trocar,_

_beneath your bruising skin._

_Tonight I'll lay beside you darling,_

_in necromantic sin._

Deathmask Divine by The Black Dahlia Murder

* * *

_The Triwizard Tournament. The day of the second task. Two incorrigible teenagers aim their wands at one of the champions. Cedric Diggory’s head Engorges into a balloon, and he panicks as he involuntarily flies away to the sounds of a jeering crowd and one excited Ludo Bagman, fireworks lighting up the sky—a scene that does not fit the world I know. The world turns to black and the sudden sound that follows it is a fury of sensation._

_Draco Malfoy’s son, Scorpius, treads in lake water, happy at first. He calls out to someone who isn’t there. His expression changes to one of panic, continuing to act most uncharacteristically: shocked, bewildered. Frightened. He calls for someone named Albus. Only that loathsome toad of a woman responds. The familiar cold whispering of Parseltongue fills the air. Dementors plague the Hogwarts grounds, obscuring the light of noonday above the cold lake. A brief exchange of words occurs, the Headmistress growing agitated by his line of questioning about what is supposed to be common knowledge. Scorpius Malfoy, pale as a ghost, asks:_

_“Harry Potter’s dead?”_

_The susurrus of that cold, high voice grows louder and louder, reaching a fever pitch…_

  
  


_Haaarry Pottttter._

  
  
  


I scream.

  
  
  


And I wake. 

  
  
  


I am reminded that there are worse fates than Death, holding fast onto my beloved’s body as I blink away the remains of a vivid dream, feeling my body drenched in sweat. I wonder if this is how Harry felt when he had a nightmare. Upon calming down, I notice the Dark Mark burning _less_ than usual today. And I know today will be a strange day. A _good_ day.

My mantra has been ‘though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me’ for quite some time. Should I dare hope for a change in the tide? After twenty-two years of failed resistance?

And if it’s a good day indeed, I am terrified of what it will mean for me. For _Us._ But did I not say that when the time comes, We will come and meet it? And did I not mean it?

_Yes. Yes, I meant it._

_Non timebo mala, quoniam tu mecum es,_ I recite in my head as I close my eyes, letting the words settle within my soul.

My heart filling with resolve, I tighten the embrace.

“The end is nigh, love of my life,” I say to him at last, a feeling of foreboding that I have not felt in so long growing more intense by the second. It feels just as horrible as I remember it all those years ago. I feel the end, Our end, coming close, so close. 

I sigh. “I am old, Harry; I know not the day of my death.” God as my witness, or the devil, or whatever gods I made this highest of covenants with, I know that I will make the most of it.

Because when my end arrives, I will sacrifice myself as Harry was meant to sacrifice himself, the sacred blood of the covenant thus fulfilling Us in death. We shall become one, forever. And I cannot wait to see Him once more, live, in the flesh. See that expressive beautiful face, feel the heat of His anger. He could be angry with me forever, and I would revel in it—revel in Him—always. 

“But tonight,” I say, touching his cheek with all the reverence, all the love I feel for Him going into the words, “I will lay beside you, my love.” _In necromantic sin._

I get up. I put on my nightgown, then tuck the bedclothes around Harry one last time. Rustling in His sleep as if He has a mind of His own, He smiles drowsily, eyelids closed. I give him a chaste kiss on the lips in silent goodbye. I make my way downstairs, every footstep the herald of my personal funeral dirge. I go to the kitchen and absently put on tea. I slowly pace around the house. It looks as bleak as ever before. Feeling like I may not come back, that strong foreboding feeling continuing to build (the distant horn of Fate seeming to echo in my head), I check the time. Six o’clock in the morning. 

Well. The light can’t hurt anything.

For the first time in decades, I unobscure the view of the house. The light catches in front of my face. It is radiant. Hopeful. Warm. So warm. 

After having tea, I wash my cup. I get dressed in my black teaching robes upstairs, finish my daily ablutions in the bathroom, go downstairs, and look around once more. I make my way to the door, opening it and stepping outside, taking in the resplendent sun. I lock the door behind me. I leave home after living with Him for so long. 

I knew it was wrong. I know. And after so many years, I am truly leaving everything I’ve ever treasured behind, after giving Him all of me. Looking up at the sky, I smile as the day begins.

_“Ora pro nobis, angelum meum.”_

I Apparate to Hogsmeade, getting ready to teach my last class.

* * *

  
  


_“A doe? That’s Lily’s Patronus,”_ says Scorpius.

I look at my Patronus, thinking of what my life has become. _“Strange, isn’t it? What comes from within.”_

Dementors begin to surround us. My time has come.

 _“You need to run,”_ I say. _“I will keep them at bay for as long as I can.”_

 _“Thank you,”_ says Scorpius, _“for being my light in the darkness.”_

I look at him, hoping he changes the world for the better, smiling softly. _“Tell Albus—tell Albus Severus—I’m proud he carries my name. Now go. Go.”_

The doe looks back at Scorpius. They run.

I ready myself. 

_I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Non timebo mala. Non timebo mala, I will fear no evil i will fear no evil i will fear no—_

_Capior._ I am pulled to the ground

_Conclūdor._ I am pushed to the air.

_Vivo..._ I think blearily, my soul screaming, leaving me, _cadere._

  
  
  


_Cadō._

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


_The doe turns to him with beautiful eyes, and disappears._

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  Ora pro nobis, angelum meum. = Pray for us, my angel.  
> Capior. = I am taken.  
> Conclūdor. = I am finished.  
> Vivo cadere. = I live to die.  
> Non timebo mala, quoniam tu mecum es. = I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. (Psalm 23:4)  
> Cadō. = I die.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Inspiration:** The Black Dahlia Murder's albums Nocturnal and Verminous, various works of literature, and one of author Chickenpets' fics. Check _'A House Divided'_ out. It's amazing. She's amazing. Definitely check out Pacify by her, too. 
> 
> And again, a big thanks to lucianwolf for Beta'ing this fic. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Thanks for reading my first Snarry.~ Trash girl, out.


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